


Lie With Me

by Davechicken



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:38:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They go into Kronos’ tent. Always Kronos’ tent. Written for blackbeltbarbie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lie With Me

Kronos smells of leather. Leather and sex. It is hot, where Methos lives now, with his brothers, and smell is unavoidable. Silas smells of the animals he so loves, of sand and blood and dirt. Caspian smells of fear: the fear of others. Methos does not like Caspian’s smell.

Kronos’ smell, on the other hand, he adores. Hot meat on his fingers, which he licks off with the careful dedication he pays to all he does. It makes Methos’ belly ache to watch his brother eat, over the low-burning fire. Kronos knows this, is delaying each long tongue lick, flicking up pink between the webbing of his fingers, as he cleans juice long gone. When Kronos looks up, Methos is staring at him directly. Challenging. Demanding.

They are often like this.

They go into Kronos’ tent. Always Kronos’ tent. Always apart from those occasional moments when blood-lust drives them against the shaky rise of a palm-tree, or their fighting-playing ends with one pinned to the floor by the other, eyes dark, lips red and hungry. So hungry they can’t wait and they go at it under the sky – day or night, and find sand everywhere for weeks. Even more so than usual.

This time it is the tent. Whoever moved first doesn’t matter, all that matters is who moves last. 

Methos lunges. The landing is rough – even though he is on top – and he can feel the way Kronos tenses in pain beneath him, feel the way the jolt shudders down the smaller man’s spine, settling between his legs. Kronos growls. Methos pins his wrists down, grinning as Kronos digs his nails into his palms. The pain is nothing. The pain is everything.

Kronos rolls them, of a sudden, a blur of armour, paint, hair and furs. The furs are nice. Methos grinds back into them, wantonly luxuriating in the feel of them rippling under him, anticipating more. Kronos’ fingernails are still in his palms, almost holding his hands. Kronos drags them above Methos’ head, then leans in to lick his tongue roughly from collar to chin, dragging over his throat in a way that Methos has never been able to resist. He bucks, and Kronos straddles him, sitting high on his thighs to keep him still. Yes. Yes.

Methos keeps his hands where Kronos placed them, not wanting to fight that fight again, gripping the tent-pole behind him. That tent pole. The one driven hard and fast, for reasons just like this. His hands close around the wooden post easily, and he likes to think he is holding Kronos’ cock, holding Kronos’ cock because his brother is dragging clothing out of the way, fast and sure hands going to take his cock and balls firmly, stroking and pulling and pulling and pulling and Methos’ hips move of their own accord, his heels scraping closer and closer to his ass as he tries to hump Kronos’ hand harder, tries to encourage him to give – to take – that bit more, pull that bit harder, push his fingers just… there.

Despite himself, Methos can hear the quiet, choked little noise he makes as he comes, head thrashing from side to side, tensing and tensing and then relaxing, only so long as it takes Kronos to grab the side of his face, fingers and thumb holding his jaw, holding it face front and centre, pulling him reluctantly up from his sprawl, pinching until he opens his mouth, where Kronos immediately puts his cock, pushing it past Methos’ teeth with the assurance of one who knows he need not ask, knows he will receive. With a moan, Methos begins to mouth the crown, dry lips and tongue teasing, flicking over the end. Teeth. Just a little. Just enough to hurt.

Then Kronos is holding his face in earnest, his hips snapping back and forth, forcing himself deeper and deeper into Methos’ throat, so far he thinks he might choke, his eyes stinging with tears. Kronos holds his hair and jaw, keeping him at the right angle, starting to make noises of his own now, half-choked grunts and moans, guttural pleasure. Methos does his best to breathe, knowing Kronos would fuck his mouth until he lost consciousness from lack of air, if he could, would see this through to the end. His hands pull at the tent-pole behind his head, his toes curling at the discomfort, which really shouldn’t be so hot… and then, thank whatever deities didn’t exist, it’s over, and all Methos can do is swallow and swallow and swallow until Kronos releases his head, letting it fall back on the sea of furs below them. 

Eyes half-shut in satisfaction, Methos moves just enough to daintily lap Kronos’ softening member gently, teasing another shudder from him, and a more gentle push back down. A moment of reluctance or two later, and then Kronos joins him, still propped up to be just above him. Methos laughs a little, pushes at him, and they roll back and forth again, until they are both more or less level.

Methos nips at Kronos’ throat. “Lie with me, brother,” he says, breaking the silence that often surrounds these couplings, these sweaty, frantic trysts. Kronos, for once, looks torn. 

“Lie with me. I only bite those whose taste I do not mind.”

Kronos laughs. “And am I supposed to be insulted, or flattered by that?”

“Both,” Methos says with a grin, finally managing to drag Kronos down close enough for comfort, his, at least, if not Kronos’.

“Lie with me,” he says again, and Kronos nods this time, relenting, lying in close.

“Whatever you ask, Methos.”

 _That_ makes him laugh. “Oh. I very much doubt that. But for now, this is enough.”

Kronos nods, then is still by his side. Methos presses against him, even though it’s too warm for comfort already. But it won’t be, in the night. 

When it comes.


End file.
